His Dark Obsession (9 page)

~*~

There wasn’t room on the narrow bench to hold her close as he wanted to. Besides, there were her needs to attend to as well. Carefully, pulling himself free, Pierce quickly untied her ankles. Sarah pulled her knees up to her chest. Shivering.

Pierce wrapped the edges of the dressing gown over her slim body, rubbing her arms.

“It is just your body responding to all the intense emotions. It will ease soon,” he soothed. “Let me get a cloth to bathe between your thighs.”

“No,” she called out as he rose. Sitting upright as she pulled the dressing gown close. “I would prefer to do it myself,” she said shyly.

Pierce reluctantly nodded his assent. Gently taking her by the shoulders, he helped her rise. Placing her arms in the gown, he wrapped the belt securely around her tiny waist. “You may use the suite of rooms again down the hall. I will give you some privacy.”

“Thank you,” she quietly left the room.

Pierce ran his hand over his face. She was not the only one shaken by their experience. Never in his life had he felt such an overpowering connection with a woman in his bed. He wanted to consume her. In many ways he felt as if he had. Her virginity was a minor inconvenience but there was no reason why it should change his plans for her. What was done was done. If anything, it would more securely bind her to him. Marriage to an American was not possible but he was a wealthy lord. It was not only expected it was practically a requirement to have a mistress. He had never pursued one before, preferring more casual dalliances but circumstances had changed. Satisfied with the outcome, Pierce went to tell Sarah the good news.

After respectfully knocking on the door and hearing no response, he entered. The room was empty. She was gone.

~*~

Sarah dressed quickly and fled down the servant’s staircase. She needed time to think. Racing back to Mrs. Needham’s, she cloistered herself in her room. Complaining of a headache, grateful Elma was out in the country on an assignment with a female painter. Less than a quarter of an hour after arriving home there was a discreet knock on her door. It was Mary with a note from Lord Warrington.

Nothing has changed. Be at my home tomorrow at the appointed time. Do not be late.

P.

“She’s a strumpet who stole that fancy lord from me and I hate her!”

Victoria sighed as she tied off her thread and started another needle. Florence had talked of little else the past few days than her keen dislike of Sarah. “From what I hear, it is your own fault for playing that nasty trick on her,” said Victoria referring to Florence deliberately tight lacing Sarah into her corset.

Florence played with the lace edge of her sleeve. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean,” she retorted with all the haughtiness of the Queen. Victoria’s only answering remark was a knowing smirk.

Their conversation ended when Mary brought in the evening tea tray, knowing Sarah, Elma and Mrs. Needham would soon be joining them. It was the usual practice at
Mrs. Mildred Needham’s Studio of Virtuous Young Beautiful Women Artist Models
for everyone to gather in the drawing room after supper for a final cup of tea and to discuss the day’s events and tomorrow’s assignments before retiring above stairs to their boarder rooms.

Mrs. Needham entered in mid-sentence, “lighting the fire in the front parlor and don’t forget to fill the coal scuttle.” Her eyes were trained downward on a stack of wayward papers and notes.

“Mrs. Needham, Mary is not with you. She probably did not hear any of your instructions,” said a bemused Victoria. It was an amusement in the household that their maid-of-all-work Mary would usually slip away at every chance knowing if she stayed too close to Mrs. Needham she would always be given some task or other.

“Oh bother that girl!” huffed Mrs. Needham. “At least she brought in tea. Victoria, dear, will you pour. Florencia, please tell Euphemia and Sophronia the tea is poured.” Mrs. Needham always used their
model
names even in private company.

“Why,” argued a petulant Florence. “They know what time tea is! Why should I have to leave the fire to go find them?”

“No need Florence, we are here,” announced Sarah with false cheer as she entered with Euphemia.

“How is your head pain?” asked Mrs. Needham.

“It is still with me I’m afraid.”

In order to secure some privacy after leaving Lord Warrington’s she had told a half-truth and pleaded a headache. Regrettably, it was no longer a half-truth. Sarah’s head hurt from having to smile and make conversation all evening long as if her whole world had not tilted this afternoon. She desperately wanted to seek her bed but one never missed evening tea with Mrs. Needham.

“Mary said a note was delivered to you from the Warrington household. What did it say?”

Sarah took a deep breath. It was time to but her scheme into play. Did she dare? After another moment’s pause, she said slowly, “Lord Warrington has requested another artist model for tomorrow.” Sarah’s stomach twisted the moment she said it.

“Have you displeased him in some way?” asked Mrs. Needham sharply.

“Not at all, madam. I believe he would like to try something different that is all,” Sarah choked out.

“I should be the one to go!” interrupted Florence. “After all, if the savage had not made such a spectacle of herself, I’m certain his lordship would have chosen me first,” she sneered in Sarah’s direction.

“One of these days, your nastiness is going to get you in trouble,” snapped Sarah.

“What, are you going to scalp me? Savage!” sneered Florence.

Sarah felt a restraining hand on her arm and looked to see Euphemia shaking her head. “Don’t,” she whispered, “she’s not worth it.”

“Sorry, Florence. I believe my head pains are getting the best of me,” finished Sarah lamely.

“Then you best go to bed. Tomorrow I will send you to Mr. Flopson’s art salon. He needs a model for some sketches for a bronze someone has commissioned,” instructed Mrs. Needham.

Sarah sighed already dreading the long hours ahead. Mr. Flopson was a young, handsome and talented artist with the charm of an over-steeped teapot. He was tedious in his demands, expecting you to hold a difficult pose for hours and worse, rarely spoke, not even the sparest of pleasantries.

“I will help you to your bed,” offered Victoria, gently taking Sarah’s arm and leading her out of the parlor.

After helping her to undress and insisting on her taking some headache powder, Victoria tucked Sarah under the covers.

Pausing to sit on the bed, she asked, “Are you sure it is just head pains, Sarah? Nothing is bothering you?”

“Why would you ask?” Sarah was alarmed.
Was there some outward sign? Could they tell she had just lost her maidenhead? Or worse, could they tell some dark part of her enjoyed her punishments from Lord Warrington?

“No reason,” Victoria responded softly. “I wanted you to know if you were having a problem with Lord Warrington, you could come and tell me.” When Sarah said nothing, she continued. “He is a very handsome man and quite rich from what I understand. He is to inherit his father’s estate and an even higher title.”

Sarah smiled. “You forget, I am a
savage colonialist
. I have no care for money or titles.”

They both giggled at Florence and Mrs. Needham’s many silly names for her.

“It is just as well. I have heard some alarming things about Lord Warrington.”

Sarah’s cheeks burned.
Did Victoria know about his cabinet of silk bindings and riding crops?

Clearing her throat, she tried to act disinterested. “Really, like what, pray?”

“It is probably nonsense but there is talk of a rather unsavory gentleman’s secret society called the Brotherhood of the Linked Ring. Their whole creed is to drink, gamble and despoil young maidens if the gossip is to be believed. Why Sarah you’ve gone so pale!”

Sarah was thinking of the tattoo on Lord Warrington’s shoulder.

“It is just my head, Victoria,” Sarah mumbled.

“Get some sleep.” Victoria kissed her on the cheek and took the candle when she left.

Leaving Sarah alone in the dark with her thoughts. She had spent the whole evening trying to convince herself she meant nothing to Lord Warrington. She was just another female for his photographic collection. It was better to cut and run now before she truly got her heart broken…or worse. It was all just a game…a game that went too far. It is why she came up with her scheme. She almost believed it but there was small stubborn part of her that hoped tomorrow when someone else showed up for her session…well…that he would be angry and disappointed. It would have proved to her that he wanted her…not just the female who posed for his photographs. Her hope was now dashed. His tattoo was three linked rings. The Brotherhood of the Linked Rings. It could not be a coincidence.

She had been used by Lord Warrington.

~*~

Across London. At The Brotherhood of the Linked Ring club on Old Bond Street.

“I hear you have something extra special for us.”

Pierce absently swirled his brandy as he took in his companions. Lord Robinson, Lord Van der Weyde and Mr. Davison.

“I might,” he responded smoothly.

“Come now man! Aren’t you going to share?” said Lord Van der Weyde jovially.

Pierce smiled. “Not yet gents, I’m not quite done playing.”

They all laughed as Mr. Davison began to deal out the cards.

The Warrington carriage pulled up to the battered green door of Mrs. Needham’s Academy at precisely quarter to the hour.

“Hurry up, Florencia! Lord Warrington sent his carriage this time,” called out Mrs. Needham.

“His lordship must know it is me coming and wanted me to arrive in luxury. He made you walk didn’t he?” taunted Florence as she put on her wrap. Sarah pretended to ignore her but the barb stung.

A few minutes later the carriage rolled away and Sarah set out on foot for Mr. Flopson’s.

~*~

“My lord, I need a word.”

“It will have to wait, Parker.”

“But my lord….” It was no use, Lord Warrington was already taking the steps two at time. He would learn soon enough what awaited for him.

Sarah was waiting for him in his photography studio on the third floor. He was anxious to see her…to hold her. It took every ounce of resolve he had not to rush over to Mrs. Needham’s last night with some excuse to check on her. In the end, he decided to have patience, not a strong virtue with him. He knew going to Needham’s would cause uncomfortable questions for Sarah. He wanted her to agree to become his mistress and allow him to set up a household for her because she wanted it as well…not because she had been tossed out of Needham’s boarding house for being indiscreet.

All of that would be resolved soon. She was here now…and early for a change. He would just have to think of another reason to punish her for their mutual satisfaction, Pierce thought with a smile.

He opened the door to his studio and saw the pale expanse of a nude hip with one bottom cheek peeking out through a sheer draping with long black hair artfully arranged over a generous bosom. The image was close…but not the one he wanted most.

“What the hell is going on? Where is Sarah?”

Florence artfully rose from the upholstered bench, careful to allow the draping to fall away from her nude form as she took several slow steps towards him, swiveling her hips.

“What does it matter where the savage is?” asked Florence as she draped her arms around his neck, allowing the tips of her breasts to brush his chest. “We both know you only asked her out of pity. Now I’m here. I’m sure you’ll find my
services
far superior,” she purred.

Pierce reached up to enclose her wrists in his strong grasp…before pulling them away. Taking a step back, he ground out, “Put your clothes on.”

Florence’s cheeks flushed scarlet in her humiliation. “You couldn’t possibly prefer that little backwater colonialist to me?” she screeched.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Pierce gave her a scathing once over. “Forgive me but I prefer my cock-lanes unbuttered.”

Florence flew at him claws drawn. “How dare you call me a whore!”

Pierce easily caught her wrists again, holding her at bay. At that moment, Parker entered.

“Excellent timing as always, Parker,” said Pierce sardonically.

“I thought you might need my assistance, my lord,” replied Parker as he held Pierce’s hat and frock coat.

“If you would be so kind as to take care of this?”

Pierce pushed the still screaming and kicking nude Florence into Parker’s arms. Ever the distinguished butler, he didn’t even blink at her unclothed state.

“Of course, my lord. I also took the liberty of keeping the carriage ready. I thought you might have a need.”

His butler had excellent instincts, for indeed Pierce was now on the hunt.

~*~

Pierce stormed into Mrs. Needham’s small parlor without invitation. Finding no one there. He proceeded to search the entire flat…room by room. He would tear the place apart with his bare hands till he found Sarah. There would be no running from him.

When Mary came upon him, one look at his dark visage, she skittered away. She was never one to borrow trouble.

Pierce opened the last door at the end of the hallway. It was a small informal drawing room. Victoria stood up in shock. “Pierce, what are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Sarah. It would be in your best interest to tell me where I can find her.”

Victoria searched his face for a moment. Taking a few steps towards him she asked, “Are you sure that is what you want?”

“Do I look uncertain?” he ground out through a clenched jaw. His hands fisted at his side. Tense.

Victoria backed away. “She is at Mr. Flopson’s artist salon on Flitcroft Street not far from here.”

Pierce left without another word.

~*~

Sarah was miserable.

Mr. Flopson’s new bronze statue was of Artemis. So she was dressed in a foolish costume of pink Grecian draping and forced to stand still with her arms extended holding a bow and arrow. Not only did her arms already hurt, it was painfully dull and quiet, which gave her time to think. Time to think about Pierce. Time to think about Florence. Time to think about Pierce
with
Florence.

Yes, Sarah was miserable.

“We are having some very fine weather as of late,” she said with false cheer.

“Please! No talking. I must concentrate. Hold the bow up higher. That’s it,” said Mr. Flopson before returning to his sketching.

In the utter relentless silence of the second floor flat studio, Sarah could hear someone pounding on the door below. There were some raised voices before a crash, followed by an outraged scream. Sarah kept looking over to see if Mr. Flopson would show the slightest concern over the obvious disturbance within his household but the man did not even so much as glance up.

Well, perhaps the commotion will come our way for a bit of distraction, thought Sarah with hope.

Just then, the studio door burst open and Pierce charged in.

The civilized man in him was immediately relieved to finally have her before him.

The primal beast in him came unleashed.

She was standing in the middle of the room, scandalously attired in a pink drape. The rope belt emphasizing her generous curves. Her beautiful hair down, falling in waves just past her waist. To his mind, she might as well have been nude. His woman. Nude…in front of another male.

Intense blue eyes under a lowered brow pierced the distance between them. Sarah blinked reading the painful promise in his gaze as if he had spoken the words.

There was a scrape of a wooden stool as Mr. Flopson stood in agitation at the interruption finally aware of the pending chaos around him.

“Sir, what is all this commotion about?” inquired Mr. Flopson in an injured tone.

Pierce’s attention swung sharply in his direction. Letting out an almost feral growl, he advanced on the hapless artist. Before Mr. Flopson had a chance to protest, Pierce had him by the throat pressed against a wall.

“No! No! It’s not his fault!” Sarah tried to step off the pedestal but tripped on the long pink draping. A shocking amount of décolletage was presented to both men’s shocked eyes before she was able to adjust the fabric. The move only incensed Pierce further. Turning his attention back to the man who dared look at Sarah, Pierce was dangerously close to committing cold-blooded murder.

Sarah ran forward and grabbed Pierce by the arm holding Mr. Flopson captive.

“Please. It is not his fault! I wanted to come here! We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong! You stand there before me with your
charms
on display at his order and you say nothing is wrong!” he shouted.

“How is that any different from you?” she whispered.

Pierce dropped Flopson and turned on Sarah. She took a step back, trying not to trip on the fabric again. Then another. Then another. Ruthlessly, he charged forward. Stalking her. Till her own back was against the far side wall. Mr. Flopson lay in a heap on the floor across the room, dazed.

Pierce placed both hands on the wall high above her head. Towering over her. Caging her in with his body. His strength. His anger. It was palatable.

Leaning down close, Pierce’s intense gaze focused on her lips and slender throat. Sarah wildly thought he couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or murder her. Finally, he spoke. His tone viciously hard. “You dare compare what we shared to
this
?”

“Not in so many words,” mumbled Sarah, quickly losing her bold impulse. His closeness. The scent of skin warmed bay rum. The press of his thighs against her own with only a flimsy piece of cloth to separate them. Her whole body thrummed with awareness.

Sarah bit her lip to prevent a gentle moan from escaping her lips. The movement only seemed to inflame him more. Shifting his hips to press in closer, he made sure she could feel the compelling hard ridge of his shaft against her middle.

His eyes burned with rage. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t deserve to be punished.”

“Nothing untoward was happening,” she insisted. “There is nothing wrong with how I am attired or what I was doing,” she finished petulantly. Her pert chin raised.

The right side of his mouth rose in a slow mockery of a smile. The expression did nothing to dim the hostile look in his eye. “I suppose I will just have to show you how wrong you are then.”

Latching on to her frail wrist, Pierce pulled her to the door. Sarah tried to resist.

“No. You can’t! I am not dressed!”

“I seem to recall you stating emphatically a moment ago you were properly attired,” he sneered.

“Yes, well…I…you see,” she stammered unable to think of an adequate rebuke. Glancing down she remembered her stocking feet. “Wait, I need my shoes!”

Without a word, Pierce pulled on her wrist till she slammed into his broad, powerful chest. Memories of how his chest pressed her down as his cock pressed in, assailed Sarah. Placing her small hands up in defense, she grasped his wide, upper arms and attempted to push back. Her left hand rested over where she knew his linked ring tattoo to be. The thought spurred her on. She was nothing to him. Just a conquest to be celebrated with his friends at his secret club.

Grasping her slim upper arms, Pierce gave Sarah a swift shake. “Stop your struggling,” he warned. Sarah stilled, for the moment. Placing a strong arm beneath her knees, Pierce swept her into his arms. Cradled as she was, Sarah felt small and vulnerable. Staring up at the sharp angle of his jaw. The lowered brow over cold, glinting eyes. The fierce pounding of his heart. The tense, hard feel of his muscles as they moved along her side. She could literally
feel
his fury as it barraged her every sense.

With one long last look of warning to Mr. Flopson who quickly held up his arms and shook his head, clearly illustrating to Pierce he had no intention of interfering. Pierce carried his stolen treasure from the room.

Effortlessly carrying her slight weight in his arms, Pierce made quick work of the stairs. Sarah squinted from the harsh sunlight as they emerged on to the busy London walkway. With a nod from Pierce, the groom alighted from his perch on the back of the brougham and opened the door for them. Expertly trained, the young groom did not so much as flinch at the sight of his lordship with a squirming female in his arms.

Sarah looked at the polished black brougham, rigged only with one horse to make it even more swift and maneuverable through the crowded streets. With the Warrington Crest blazed on the side and the tailored uniforms of the groom and coachman, the entire rig screamed wealth and power. It only heightened the foolishness of defying a force such as Lord Pierce Warrington. She instinctively knew if she allowed herself to be carried into that brougham she would be lost…but lost took many forms. Would it be her heart or her life?

“No! No! You can’t! Put me down!” she shouted. Twisting and turning in his arms. Astounded by only the passing curiosity shown by the people on the street.

It was useless. Pierce tossed her onto the plush interior seat as if she weighed no more than a lace handkerchief.

“Drive till I tell you to stop,” ordered Pierce to his coachman who responded with a tip of his hat. Turning to the groom, he flipped him a few coins. “Go pay the man inside for his troubles. Collect the lady’s possessions and take a hansom cab home.”

“Yes, your lordship,” nodded the groom before running back inside to do his master’s bidding.

The carriage dipped and swayed as Pierce’s considerable brawn entered. Sarah was curled up on the far corner of the long bench-like seat across from him, eying him warily.

Never taking his assessing gaze off her, Pierce ran his hand over his jaw and mouth, as if willing himself to a calmer state.

Sarah would not help the situation.

“I have not given you the right to treat me this way,” she stated emphatically.

“I
took
the right the moment my cock entered your body,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

Sarah gasped at the harsh words and possessive implication.

“I hope you are bringing me home,” she responded tremulously, desperately trying to show him she was not cowed.

“I am,” he murmured almost absently as he continued to stare at her with a predator’s fascination.